Of course

"Of course I would," John said, watching the way Emily's eyes widened—like she'd just been handed a key to some secret door. He cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. "Within reason, obviously. But yes, if extra tutoring helps balance the captain responsibilities, we can arrange that." He tapped his pen against the desk, suddenly hyper-aware of the way Emily's skirt rode up slightly as she leaned forward, the smooth curve of her thigh pressing against the chair's edge. Her blouse clung just enough to hint at the athletic build beneath, all toned shoulders and a waist that tapered like it had been designed by an artist.

Emily chewed her bottom lip, her fingers tracing the edge of her notebook. "Actually... could the extra help be for Econ? That class is *killing* me." She laughed, a soft, self-deprecating sound that made the freckles across her nose crinkle. "Which is awkward since you’re the teacher, but—"

John waved a hand, grinning. "No, that’s fair. Econ’s brutal if you’re not wired for it." He paused, acutely aware of how her blonde hair caught the sunlight, framing her face like something out of a Renaissance painting. "I usually hold office hours Thursday afternoons. If that doesn’t work, we could—"

"—Do evenings?" Emily blurted, then immediately flushed. "I mean, only if that’s not weird? Lacrosse practice runs late, and I’m kind of a night owl anyway." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"It’s not weird," he said, perhaps a little too quickly. He shifted in his chair, forcing his gaze to stay above her collarbone. "Tuesday and Thursday evenings, then. Library or my office, whichever’s quieter."

Emily’s cheeks flushed pink as she nodded, her fingers curling around the edges of her notebook like she was holding onto something precious. "Okay. Yeah. That—that sounds perfect, Principal Lee." She hesitated, then flashed a smile so bright it could’ve powered half the campus. "Thank you. Like, *really*. I won’t let you down."

John stood, extending his hand across the desk—an automatic gesture, something he’d done a thousand times with parents and faculty. But the moment Emily’s palm slid against his, warm and faintly calloused from lacrosse, something unexpected happened: a jolt, subtle but undeniable, like static electricity snapping between them. Her grip was firm, her fingers slender but strong, and when she squeezed, just a fraction longer than necessary, John felt his pulse hitch.

Emily’s breath caught, too—just a soft, almost imperceptible inhale—before she pulled away, tucking her hair behind her ear with a quick, nervous flick. "I should—uh. Get to study hall," she murmured, already backing toward the door, her ponytail swinging like a pendulum.

"Of course," John said, his voice coming out smoother than he felt. "Thursday at seven, then. Don’t forget your textbook."

Emily grinned over her shoulder as she slipped out, the door clicking shut behind her with a quiet finality.